Ghost Watching
by Laspettra
Summary: The story of how Annie met George and Mitchell. The pilot episode re-imagined from Annie's point of view, with our OT3.
1. Chapter 1

**Written to fit with the Being Human pilot episode, though re-imagined with our OT3 of Lenora, Aidan and Russell. The details in the story are drawn from the pilot, so although it doesn't seem possible from later episodes that Annie was ever invisible to them, it's clear from the dialogue in the pilot that she remained so for a few days before they found her. I guess, as her determination to get them out of her house increased, her power and her corporeality did too. I think parts of the dialogue I took from the pilot (maybe not in this part but later parts) but it was only snippets.**

**I hope you enjoy!**

**Ghost, Watching**

_Part 1_

She watched them, from her hiding place at the foot of the stairs: _two young men_.

That had surprised her, actually. Previously, it had only been couples: a couple, another couple, then a group of students who were also couples and lastly _another_ couple. Did her house say 'coupleyness' to others she wondered? It had to her and Owen, of course. Once, a long time ago….

The last couple had been pregnant, which she felt had just been adding insult to injury. _Fatal_ injury. They'd even begun measuring up the spare room to turn it into a nursery for their imminent sprog - the room that she and Owen had talked about turning into a nursery of their own.

Well, she couldn't let _that_ stand. She'd seen them off in the same way she'd done for all the others, her freaking-people-out skills perfectly honed over the last year. She knew all the tricks best designed to drive them slowly crazy with terror. Not that she did them any real harm; it was the natural human aversion to things they could not explain, and also to the Undead, which she played on. She made sure the 'nursery' became a no-go-zone. And the staircase. She had felt no pity for them. The man, she congratulated herself, had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown by the time he had finally given in and got himself and his heavily pregnant partner out of the house. Which was good because she didn't think she could have taken on a baby. She was not, after all, heartless. Well, _technically_ she _was_, but that didn't mean she didn't have feelings, didn't mean she didn't ache with longing for Owen, didn't feel the pain of their separation.

Where was he? Why didn't he come back? Why let their house out to these strangers? _Their_ house! Their little love-nest… Could he not bear to live in the place where she had died? She supposed his heart had been broken too, poor Owen. If only he would come!

But he never did.

Instead, two days ago, two _boys_ had moved in.

The stupid letting agent woman had thought they were a gay couple, but watching them now, laughing and goofing about over the washing up, she did not detect any … _thing_ between them. No kissing, and no touching. And anyway, they had set their stuff in separate rooms. Strangely, they had both decided to leave her room untouched, though that may have been to do with the pink walls. Definitely _not_ gay.

One of the boys was Irish. His name was Mitchell. He had chosen to spread his belongings about the nursery. He had wavy, dark hair, and dark, sort-of-brooding good looks. You might even say he was pretty, and perhaps he thought so too, as there was a kind of laid-back arrogance about him. Yet he was not vain, as many handsome men are. He didn't preen in front of the mirror, or hole himself up in the bathroom for hours in the morning. He was more a roll-out-of-bed-and-pull-on-yesterday's-keks-kind-of-guy: scruffy, untidy, with big boots and tight black jeans. There was also some curious penchant for fingerless gloves, but that might just be because the house was cold.

The house was always cold, she thought wryly; _she_ saw to that.

The other boy wore glasses and an air of awkward, excitable geekiness. This boy's name was George. He wasn't 'cool' like the Irish lad. He bounded around the house in jeans and Berghaus fleeces and the kind of trainers preferred by Engineering students. His ears stuck out, ridiculously so. _All the better for hanging his glasses on_, she thought with a snigger. George had taken the poky little room at the back of the house, the one with the gnome-wallpaper. In contrast to Mitchell, his room was _very_ tidy, almost neurotically so. He had even alphabetised his bookshelves. She suspected that he might be a little anally retentive. He was younger than Mitchell, she thought, from the way he seemed to defer to Mitchell like an older brother, the way Mitchell appeared to indulge him like a fond parent. There was a kind of innocence about George, a naivety, which made him seem rather endearing.

Mitchell and George. _Boys_.

She watched them, and she listened to their conversations. They didn't see her lurking in the shadows of the house, watching and listening. They seemed … well, sort of nice really. Kind of sweet. Different to the others, though perhaps that was just because they were boys. She shook herself. What was she thinking? They might be – _nice_ – but they had to go! Just like all the others! She didn't want to share her house with them. She didn't want them invading her space, putting their things where hers should be, making it seem like the house belonged to them. It was _her_ house. And besides, if she did not get rid of them, then how could Owen ever come back to her? No, she would just have to get on with it and get them out, just like the others.

In the meantime, she would watch them. Watch them and find their weak-spots, find out the things that made them fearful, the things that made them twitch and tremble, doubt their sanity, the things that had the power to reach around their hearts with an icy claw. Yes, she would watch them.

The kettle boiled.

"Tea?" George asked Mitchell, removing two mugs from the freshly-washed-up pile.

"Thanks," replied Mitchell, and reached for the biscuit tin before settling down at the kitchen table. "What time does your shift finish?" he asked between mouthfuls of biscuit.

George placed a mug of tea in front of Mitchell. "Eight," he sighed, dropping into a chair beside him. "You?"

"Six."

A silence followed in which they both sipped their tea and contemplated the tablecloth.

"This is nice," said George, after a little while.

"Nice, how?" asked Mitchell, regarding him with amusement.

"You know - here, _us_, living like – well, like …" he made a helpless gesture.

"Like we're just ordinary human beings?" suggested Mitchell, grinning over the rim of his mug.

"Yes. Like we're … _human_. Nothing … _else_." He wore a look of triumph.

Mitchell gave a low chuckle.

This was a puzzling conversation, thought Annie. What _else_ could they be but human? They were certainly not ghosts: they ate, they slept, they washed and went to the loo and they farted just like humans. Ghosts did not do any of those things.

"How is the, er, the not-killing-people-thing coming along, anyway?" George asked in a casual tone.

"Pretty good, pretty good…" Mitchell answered, nodding, though not quite meeting his friend's eyes.

"And you're not – you haven't been tempted to, er, _bite_ anyone recently?"

"You're perfectly safe, George," said Mitchell, rolling his eyes. "We've been through this. Your blood is cursed. It holds no – _attraction_ for me." He shot George a roguish grin.

"I didn't mean me!" George protested. "I meant – well, we've just moved in. It could become very awkward if any of the neighbours should start dying mysteriously."

"I've _told_ you," Mitchell replied with a note of irritation in his voice. "I'm through with that. I can fight it. It's just a matter of will power." He drained the last of his tea and replaced the mug on the table with a little more force than he perhaps intended.

"But you said to me that it was like an addiction," George persisted. "This is like cold turkey for you and unfortunately there's no twelve-step program for blood-addiction, it is just _you_ and your will power. I'm just worried that you might have a … a relapse, that's all."

"Well _don't_," said Mitchell, pushing his chair back and standing up. "_Don't_ worry. I've got it under control." He reached for his coat. "C'mon. We'll be late."

George gathered up the mugs and placed them in the sink, then followed Mitchell. The door slammed behind them.

Annie was alone again. Alone with some very unsettling thoughts….

So, Mitchell was a killer, with an addiction to blood? And George had been frightened that he might _bite_ one of their neighbours! _What, like a vampire?_ she scoffed. And George was safe from his friend's bloodlust because his blood was somehow _cursed_…? What the _hell_ did _that_ mean? She had liked these boys! She had thought them _nice_. But one of them was a killer and the other his accomplice! Of course, they couldn't harm her, she was dead already, but she was not going to let them violate her house with their murderous ways.

She went upstairs. Now they were gone for the day she had nothing to occupy her, except snooping around in their bedrooms. It would amuse her for a while, and she might also find some clues about who or what they were. _Detective Inspector Annie Sawyer, on the case!_

She walked through the door into Mitchell's room. The curtains were still drawn, lending the room a gloomy, cave-like appearance, an effect added to by the slightly fetid smell that lingered there. She wrinkled her nose. Despite not actually breathing any more, her sense of smell remained perfectly in tact. The room was a tip, with discarded clothes and magazines, coffee mugs, even a (mercifully empty) pizza box, strewn across the floor and bed. Briefly, she considered tidying up, but then discarded the idea when she spied a pair of boxers amidst the debris. She gave a snort of disgust. This boy needed a mother! Instead, she flung the curtains wide and opened the window to give the room some air.

She was just turning to leave when she glimpsed a battered shoebox under the bed. Something about it roused her curiosity. She knelt down and dragged it out. An elastic band had been used to secure the lid. Yanking it off, she lifted the lid. She didn't know what she had expected to find in there – mementoes of his murder victims perhaps – but she was pleased with what she did discover: _photos_. Most of them old, very old. None of Mitchell, though, nor of his family, whom he had presumably left behind in Ireland.

There were some of a lovely girl in sixties garb – mini-dress and knee-high boots. She had bobbed brown hair and large blue eyes. In every picture she was laughing and smiling into the camera, her face touched by an expression that Annie knew well. She was posing for her lover, Annie was sure of it. On the back of these photos was her name in faded blue ink: _Josie_, _1969._

Then there were some very old black and white photos of a family who, judging from their clothes, had lived about a hundred years ago. They were formal, posed, studio-shots: a man standing, with one arm around the shoulders of a seated woman and another of two girls, sisters probably, with thick, dark ringlets, and laced-up boots. There was also one of a young soldier, posing proudly in his uniform. On the back was written: _Lance-Sergeant J. Mitchell, 1__st__ Battalion, Irish Guards, June 1915._ So, 'Mitchell' was a family name, then. Perhaps this was the ancestor he had been named for; she thought she detected a likeness.

Another was a portrait of a young woman, very beautiful, dressed all in black, with a high collar like they used to wear in the late Victorian period, and holding a sleeping baby in her lap. The woman's expression, however, was not one of joyful new-motherhood, but was solemn and sad. Annie could not draw her eyes from the picture. Something about it held a fascination for her, though she could not explain what. She turned it over. There, in very faded ink was written: _My mother._ Whose mother though? Someone long dead, she imagined. But why would Mitchell want to keep such a photo? What connection did he have to the sad lady?

She sighed. There didn't seem to be anything here to connect Mitchell with murder, only a peculiar attachment to old photos of people who had lived and died long before he was born.

She had been about to tidily replace the shoebox under the bed when another idea seized her. The floor was too messy for Mitchell to notice if she scattered the photos there, so she peeled back the duvet and tipped the shoebox photos over his sheets. Then she pulled the duvet back over them again. He would get a surprise when he got into bed that night, and he would know that someone had been amongst his personal things. _That should creep him out!_

She went into George's room. He kept it scrupulously tidy. The bed was pristine, as if he had not slept in it at all, though she knew he had because she had watched him sleeping last night. Only out of boredom. And actually it had proved quite entertaining as George was a fitful sleeper: he thrashed around all night, muttering feverishly all the while, wrapping himself ever more tightly in his bedclothes until eventually he had actually tumbled right out of the little single bed and woken himself up. (Mitchell, in contrast, slept like a man with a clear conscience: he was as quiet as the grave all night).

She poked around at his things. He didn't keep any pictures of his family either. Maybe they'd fallen out. She considered rearranging his books, just to annoy him, but it seemed that Mitchell had beaten her to it. She thought about upending his laundry basket all over the floor, but decided she did not want to have to look at his pants. Instead, she settled for dragging all his crisply-ironed clothes from their hangers and dropping them on the floor. _That ought to wind him up_, she thought with grim satisfaction.

On a nail by the dresser George had hung a calendar: a _lunar_ calendar. She had seen one of these before: at college, her housemate Megan had had one. But Megan had been a hippy, earth-mother type who had been convinced that her periods were influenced by the moon's gravitational pull (Megan had never been able to satisfactorily explain why the women of Britain were not all 'on' at the same time, though, if this were true).

Strange that a _man_ would be interested in the lunar cycle. Perhaps he was an amateur astronomer? Or a _burglar_! Burglars liked to work on the nights of the full-moon. She remembered Owen telling her that once. Perhaps this was connected to Mitchell's killing-people-thing… Did they work as a team? Or simply cover for each other?

She huffed a sigh. So much for detective work! On its own, the lunar calendar did not add up to much, but she decided it was the most useful clue she had uncovered.

She went to the pink bedroom. This used to be the room she shared with Owen. They had chosen the paint together in B & Q. She could still recall the Sunday afternoon they had spent decorating it. There was no bed in the room now, but there was a big squashy armchair, her own chair, left here by Owen. Her clothes he had given away to a charity shop; her personal things, her memory-boxes and her stuffed toys, he had given to her parents and sisters; but the few items of furniture she had chosen, her books and cds (the ones he didn't want), the crockery she had bought, and the stone ornaments she had arranged about the garden, he had left here. They were all she had left now of the life she used to live, of the life she had planned with Owen, of all her hopes and dreams for the future… These pink walls and this armchair. She curled herself up within its cushions and planned her next move…


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: sadly not my characters, but I hope you find them **_**in**_** character. I think I borrowed a couple of snippets of dialogue from the pilot, but I can't remember which bits exactly (no copy of the pilot to help me work this out now). I hope you enjoy!**

Ghost Watching

_Part 2_

Evening found Annie curled up on the sofa downstairs, headphones on, listening to _Kiss FM_. There was something reassuringly ordinary about the local travel updates and the advertisements for contraception advice and car finance. It lent her a flimsy connection to the world outside the house, the world of the living, and somehow it helped her feel …like a real person again, a person who was not invisible to everyone. Like a human being.

It had been another long, lonely day, to add to all the other long, lonely days she had endured since she had died.

She had mooched around the house for a while, idly moving stuff about. George's phone charger was now sitting in the microwave and Mitchell's lighter was in the freezer. A half-hearted attempt at making her presence felt. And then, around 5 o'clock, she had taken up her spot by the window and watched the street for an hour or so as people returned home from work. She had never had the chance to get to know any of her neighbours when she was alive, but during the last two years, this regular vigil had introduced her to most of the people who lived on Windsor Terrace and Henry Street. She didn't know their names, and she didn't actually know any more about them than she could tell from watching them walk past her house, so she filled in the gaps with stories of her own invention. It relieved the boredom. And it amused her for a while, if she didn't think too deeply about how desperately sad it all was.

The front door slammed.

Annie leapt up from the sofa. In a breath, she moved to the kitchen. From her hiding place behind the kitchen door, she watched as Mitchell and George unpacked their groceries.

"We must be getting close to the full moon," said Mitchell conversationally, as he handed George a carton of juice.

"Six nights," George muttered, crouching to stow the juice in the fridge.

"I've been thinking," Mitchell began, casting a wary look at his friend, "what if you change _here_ this month? It might be safer."

George stood up. "Safer for _who_?" he spluttered. "Not for you! You might be a vampire, Mitchell, but a werewolf can still kill you! It could rip off your head, rip out your guts – " He stopped abruptly. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"Sounded like a gasp."

Annie clamped her hand over her mouth, but not before she let another little squeak escape.

"There it is again!" George hissed, signalling Mitchell to be quiet. He narrowed his eyes and peered about the room, scouring every corner for the source of the sound.

Annie watched in a state of anguished excitement. Had he really heard her gasp? Might he be able to _see_ her too? And was he really a _werewolf_? And Mitchell a _vampire_? But had someone _finally_ heard her?

"I didn't hear anything," said Mitchell with a shrug.

That deflated her excitement somewhat.

George scowled at Mitchell. "Well, I have very sensitive hearing right now …" he admitted, with obvious discomfort. "As the full moon approaches, you know."

"Oh. Really?" Mitchell looked at him interestedly.

"Yes," George answered tightly, seizing a pack of yoghurts and shoving them into the fridge.

Mitchell seemed about to ask another question, but then thought better of it. "So, back to what we were saying before. I'm not suggesting we give you free rein of the house on the full moon. What I thought was, we could get you a cage – a big one, it'll need to be - and pop it in that pink room upstairs. Course, we'll need some thicker curtains to soundproof the windows and – "

"NO!" George interrupted forcefully. "No way! No!" His voice had risen to a high-pitched squeak now. "I am not having – _it_ – in this house! This house is – this house is for _me_. For _us_. The wolf must never – _never_ – be allowed in here!"

"So … _where_ then?" asked Mitchell, handing George a frozen chicken.

"I'll use the woods on the Downs again." He turned his back to Mitchell, burying his head in the fridge.

"But is it safe?" Mitchell pressed him. "This time of year, there's still loads of people out and about there at night. Can you risk it?"

"I haven't killed anyone yet," George replied, defensively.

Mitchell fixed him with a look of seriousness and concern. "But could you live with yourself if you did?"

George threw his hands up, exasperated. "Well, if you've any better ideas - ideas _better_ than changing _here_ - I'm all ears!"

Mitchell's gaze slowly drifted towards George's trophy-cup ears. A traitorous smile began to twitch at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, yes! Very funny! Very bloody funny," George snapped, stomping out of the kitchen to the lounge.

Mitchell grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and followed him.

In the kitchen, Annie mulled on what she had just heard. Mitchell was a _vampire_, and George a _werewolf_. Well! It explained Mitchell's 'blood addiction', and George's 'cursed blood', anyway. It also explained George's lunar calendar, and raised some interesting questions about Mitchell's photos – how old _was_ he? But this was ludicrous! Vampires and werewolves were myths, fairy stories, fantasy… _Weren't they?_ Come to think of it, had she even believed in _ghosts_ before she became one? And if there were such things as ghosts, then what _else_ might there be? Would it stretch her imagination too far to believe this world might contain vampires and werewolves as well as ghosts?

She had thought they were different to the other tenants… How right she had been.

She stared at them as they spread themselves across the sofa and argued over what to watch on television. _Monsters in human disguise. Supernatural. Unnatural. An abomination._

_Just like her._

She shivered then. A ghost spooked.

_Were_ they like her? Was _she_ like _them_? Was she a monster too? She reflected soberly on her behaviour towards the previous tenants…. Who was she kidding? She _was_ a monster.

They were monsters, all three: a werewolf, a vampire and a ghost. Once they had been human, but the hands of Fate had reached out and transformed each one of them. She was dead: a shadow, invisible, unheard and unknown. A woman of no substance. The only way she could get the attention of the living was by moving their stuff around and scaring them. If Mitchell really was a vampire, then he was as dead as she was. The only difference was that Mitchell was still possessed of a body, though it was a body which was enslaved by a terrible craving, and he had only his will power to fight it. To be a werewolf, George must have been attacked by one. He had survived though, his life had been spared, but at a terrible cost to his humanity.

_A werewolf, a vampire and a ghost._ They were the things that went 'bump' in the night, the things that waited for you to turn off the lights, the things of nightmares.

She discovered she felt a little pity for George and Mitchell.

George and Mitchell, a werewolf and a vampire, living in her house.

That reignited her sense of purpose. It was true, they had some things in common, but this was still _her_ house and she didn't want to share it. And she knew only one way to get their attention.

The defrosting chicken was her weapon of choice. Nothing said 'Fuck off out of my house!' like a crucified chicken. She waited till Mitchell returned to the kitchen for another drink and, while his back was turned, she nailed the chicken to the kitchen cupboard, wings akimbo. All done in that strange sort of time that only ghosts can inhabit, so that the blink of an eye was as long as it took her.

Mitchell had looked gratifyingly disturbed.

"George!" he called, a note of panic detectable in his voice.

George reacted with less aplomb.

"But – but – _how_? _Who_?" he cried, his voice a hysterical squeak. "Did you leave the back door unlocked?" He glared at Mitchell accusingly.

"No," Mitchell answered with practiced patience. He tried it just for good measure, proving it to be locked fast. "See? They didn't get in here."

"Well how about the front door? Is that locked?"

"Of course. And even if it were open, they'd have had to have walked right past us. We'd have seen them. And _you'd_ have heard them, what with your super-sensitive werewolf ears."

"Then how the _hell_ did they get in?" He stared around the kitchen perplexedly. "That sound I heard earlier …I _swear_ I heard someone gasp …" He pressed a hand to his forehead. "You saw _nothing_?"

"No, nothing …" Mitchell answered, frowning pensively.

"And you didn't leave a window open upstairs?"

Mitchell stared at him.

"No. Of course you didn't," George retreated. "But this is weird. Really _weird_. Do you think maybe one of the neighbours has a key?" When Mitchell made no answer, he turned to him directly. "Mitchell?"

Mitchell seemed to come out of a reverie. "Huh?"

"I said, 'Do you think that one of the neighbours has a key?'"

Mitchell shook his head dismissively. "How would one of our neighbours get a key to the house? Our landlord surely wouldn't have given them one, not if they were going to use it to sneak in and pull pranks like this. He's trying to hold onto his tenants, not frighten them off."

"Ah!" said George, waving a finger in Mitchell's direction, a smile curving his lips. "Perhaps he didn't _give_ them a key!" He jabbed his finger to punctuate his words. "Perhaps they _stole_ it!" He looked rather pleased with this clever piece of deduction.

Mitchell looked at him thoughtfully. He pressed his lips together, frowning. "Remember the agent told us the previous tenants thought this house was 'creepy'?" he said darkly.

"Creepy?" spluttered George. "This is not _creepy!_ It's – it's – an outrage! That is _my_ chicken!" He tugged at it to free it from the nails. "And – nails? I'll have to throw the wings away now!"

Mitchell stared at him with a look of dismay. "But don't you think - ?" He stopped and shook his head, clearly thinking better of what he'd been about to say. Instead, he turned and walked back into the lounge.

"What? Don't I think _what_?" demanded George, following him, still carrying the chicken.

Mitchell dropped onto the sofa and leant back into the cushions. "Nothing," he murmured, picking up his bottle of beer and nearly choking himself on a hurried swig. He wiped his chin with his sleeve. "You're probably right. The neighbours."

George stood in front of him and inclined his head, waiting for Mitchell to go on. However, when Mitchell offered nothing more, George merely nodded, satisfied that Mitchell had conceded to his idea, and returned to the kitchen, muttering to himself about chicken dishes and seasoning.

Annie sighed. Trust George to be so mundane! The vampire, however, seemed to suspect the truth. She would have to do something that would leave him in no doubt. Perhaps she had been too subtle with the chicken.

Clearly, these two needed a more _unequivocal_ sign.


	3. Chapter 3

**Usual disclaimers: sadly not my characters, I love them all so! This is the penultimate part, as this story ends with Annie finally making herself visible to the boys and making friends - ahhh!**

**The other chapters stick very closely to what we see and learn during the pilot episode but this chapter is a little diversion from that. I hope you like it.**

Ghost, Watching

_Part 3_

Annie returned to her room upstairs. She was just beginning to wonder if her old Anne Rice books might still be in the loft, and if it might be worth digging amongst the boxes up there, when she heard Mitchell's footsteps on the stairs. She sat up.

_He would find the photos in his bed! And then he would _know. An excited grin lit her face.

She materialised in his room, just in time to watch him open the door.

He halted in the doorway. The room was flooded with the eerie orange glow from the streetlight outside. His head snapped to the window. In one swift movement, he had bounded over the bed and slammed the sash down. Pulling the curtains tightly closed, he turned and peered warily into the darkness. A sliver of light from the landing was the only illumination now; Mitchell's uneasy, shallow breathing the only sound.

Instinctively, Annie took a silent step backwards, pressing her back against the wall, willing herself to remain hidden from him. No one ever saw her in the daylight, in the peaceful, reassuring daylight; however, Annie strongly suspected that when the lights were low, when shadows stretched to fill every corner of the room, when human minds were weary or sleep-deprived or when they were fearfully alert to the possibility of her presence, then she might be glimpsed: a flicker of movement, a reflection, a passing shadow, this was all that remained of her now. She was just a trick of the light, or of the mind.

Mitchell shivered. He leant over the bed and switched on the lamp. In its dim glow, he surveyed the mess all about the room, but made no effort to clear any of it up. Instead, he dropped down onto the edge of the bed. Resting his elbows on his knees, he pressed his clasped hands to his lips, deep in thought.

Annie took a bitter pleasure in his unease. Invisible she might be, but he _knew_ she existed; he knew that whoever had nailed the chicken to the cupboard had been _here_, in his room, had opened his curtains and his window. He must be wondering where else she had been; wondering what, if anything, he could keep sacred from such a person. She smiled grimly. Nowhere and nothing in this house was out of bounds to her.

Abruptly, Mitchell pushed himself upright and stood. Too late, Annie realised he was preparing to get undressed, and she found herself primly turning away, but not before catching sight of his naked chest, the dark hairs against pale skin; the sinuous, slender frame… She felt a flush of hotness rising in her cheeks. When she looked back again, he was in a vest and pyjama bottoms, and his clothes had joined the rest of his wardrobe on the floor. He padded off to the bathroom.

A thought occurred to her. She materialised in the bathroom.

Mitchell was cleaning his teeth over the sink. And there, level with his head, was the bathroom cabinet, with its mirrored doors.

_Did he – ?_

She leaned closer.

Her eyes widened in amazement, even though she had half-known to expect it. _He really did have _no reflection_!_

She moved about the little room, peering at the mirror from every angle. With some effort, with a lot of concentration, she could see her own reflection in the glass. Or perhaps it was not a reflection but a memory, her mind playing tricks on her, she wasn't sure. But Mitchell, however, really made _no image_ in the glass. None at all. She had to keep looking back at him to remind herself that he was really there, in the room. And he _was_: real, solid, flesh and blood. A flesh and blood vampire, no question about it.

She found herself strangely unbothered by this. She didn't think about fangs and blood and murder; she thought instead about how, since she had died, her world had shrunk to the size of this house; in nearly two years, she had not ventured beyond its four walls. But now, with this revelation, her world seemed to have expanded exponentially, and all without even leaving the comfort of her own home! She gazed at the empty mirror in wonder and smiled.

As Mitchell reached for the toilet seat, she grudgingly decided to give him some privacy.

Settling herself against the wall beside his dresser, she waited.

Finally, Mitchell returned to his room, shivering slightly in the chill air. In his eagerness to get under the duvet and bury himself in its warmth, he didn't notice the photos until he felt them against his skin. He leapt out of the bed with such speed it actually made Annie jump too.

"Jesus! What the – ?" he cried, stumbling backwards. He steadied himself against the wardrobe doors.

Cautiously, he reached for the corner of the duvet and, stealing himself with a deep breath, flung it back. "_Shit_," he breathed, staring in bewilderment at the photos scattered across the sheets. He tore his hands through his hair, grasping it tightly.

Suddenly, he launched himself at the bed, scrambling to gather up the photos from the sheets. He looked around frantically for the shoebox, and spied it thrown carelessly under the dresser. Annie could not even remember how it had ended up there. He pounced on it and seized it up. He knelt down on the carpet, the photos clutched in one trembling hand, the shoebox in the other, his fearful, ragged breathing filling the room. Steadying himself determinedly, he lowered the photos to his lap and placed the shoebox down. He stared at the pile of photos. His breaths were calmer, more controlled now. His fear was subsiding, his body relaxing. She watched as his shoulders sagged and he lowered his head, his chin dropping to his chest, almost as if he were praying. He gave a heavy sigh. Weary, defeated. There was an air of wretchedness about him. Annie smiled grimly to herself, satisfied. He could be in no doubt now that she wanted him _gone._

Yet as she watched him tenderly replacing the photos in the box, pausing to inspect each one and press the creases out, she was struck by a different emotion, something familiar she couldn't name. His gaze lingered long on the pictures of the women, especially the one of the sad lady holding her baby. 'My mother' it had said on the back. 'Whose mother?' she had wondered. Did she have her answer now? Suddenly, it felt to Annie like a terrible intrusion. She had meant to unsettle him, to anger him perhaps, but a profound sadness hung about his shoulders now, and it all felt so horribly personal, so spiteful and vindictive. A pang of guilt jolted her reluctant heart.

She watched as, slowly, Mitchell sifted through Josie's pictures, examining each frame with such loving attention, it was as if he were willing himself into the very moment it was snapped, as if imagining himself behind that camera lens in 1969. His fingertips caressed the girl's smiling, celluloid face. He murmured something, but Annie did not catch his words. She noticed his breathing quicken. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. Suddenly, his eyes flicked open.

Annie felt herself freeze. She stared in wide-eyed horror, transfixed.

Mitchell's eyes were black. _Completely black_. Suffused with blackness, unnatural blackness.

Gritting his teeth, he thrust the pictures of Josie into the shoebox and pushed it away. With a loud groan, he screwed his eyes shut and threw his head back. A fierce battle seemed to be being waged within him, as if he were fighting to force away the blackness from his eyes, and from deep within him. He clenched his fists against his thighs, bringing them down forcefully in several painful slams. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes once more. The blackness was gone. His eyes had returned to normal. Panting and trembling from the exertion, he sank his head into his palm.

Annie felt herself release a breath she had not realised she had been holding.

When Mitchell raised his head once more, his eyes were glistening with tears unshed.

She had not intended this. She had not wanted this. She hadn't realised when she had thrown his photos around just how personal they were. He was a young man and they were such _old_ photos! How could she have known? She could not have suspected then that he was a vampire. When had he died? When had he _lived_? Perhaps those photos were his only connection to the human he had once been…

She thought of Owen then, and the photos of her own which she had secreted away in the loft: a fragile, flimsy thread linking her to the life she had had before Death had come and torn it from her; all that remained now to prove that she had loved and been loved, that she had once been human. Hot tears of shame stung her cheeks.

As she watched him grope under the bed for the shoebox lid, the guilt twisted at her heart and she felt a sob rising in her throat. Her hands twitched. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to offer him some comfort, to show him she was sorry for hurting him like this. But he could not see her, and she could not touch him; she doubted he would welcome her icy touch even if she could.

Mitchell pulled himself up against the bed and climbed back in. He switched off the lamp and lay down on his back, his arms resting over the covers, gazing listlessly at the ceiling. The quiet stillness of his body, however, belied the anguished state of his mind: the tears had dried up but, in the darkness, thoughts darker still traced their tortuous paths through his mind across the contours of his face. Thoughts, or memories, perhaps…

Annie shrank back into the curtains, never removing her gaze from him until his eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, finally closed.

He was a haunted man, this vampire who had given up killing people.

With a sigh, she left.


	4. Chapter 4

**In which Annie's loneliness finally comes to an end and two become three.**

**Ghost, Watching**

_Part 4_

Morning finally arrived.

The nighttimes were always the worst for Annie. _How they dragged!_ Since her death eighteen months ago, she had not slept. She was afraid to, afraid of what awaited her in her dreams. _What do ghosts dream of? Long corridors and men with sticks and rope…?_Instead, Annie usually spent her nights wandering restlessly about the house, shuffling from room to room, yet somehow always finding herself back at the foot of the stairs, gazing up. It unsettled her, this morbid compulsion to return to the scene of her death. Was this her fate, now that she was a ghost? To endlessly re-visit her last moments alive? To be tethered to that spot at the foot of the stairs, marked by a cracked tile, the place where her skull had shattered and her last breath escaped her lips? _Why?_ She stared at it and shuddered. _Like someone has just walked over my grave,_ she thought.

A juddering groan and rattle from the plumbing overhead told her George was up.

After leaving Mitchell's room last night, Annie had taken up a vigil beside George's bed, hoping vainly that she might assuage her guilty feelings towards Mitchell by watching over his friend. And George seemed to need her more. Whenever he kicked off his covers during his fitful sleep, she had patiently, tenderly, replaced them, so that he might not get cold. When he muttered incomprehensible things, or called out, Annie had leaned over and gently stoked his forehead, her cold touch soothing his feverish skin. _What was it that troubled him so?_ she had wondered. She had seen the livid scars that striped his shoulder. _Did he dream of the werewolf attacking him?_ _Or dream of_him _attacking other people?_

Finally, not long before dawn, George had succumbed to a deep and peaceful slumber and Annie had retreated from his room.

The smell of burning toast wafted from the kitchen. Mitchell had woken with the birds. This was in fact his second round of toast, and before that he'd polished off a whole pot of Onken yoghurt and a banana. For a dead man, he certainly put a lot of food away, Annie thought enviously, as she watched him from the other side of the serving hatch.

George emerged at the bottom of the staircase, yawning widely.

"Mornin,'" Mitchell greeted him cheerfully.

George frowned suspiciously at Mitchell as he shuffled into the kitchen. "You seem very chipper this morning."

"Do, I?" Mitchell chuckled, handing him a mug of tea. "A good night's sleep, that oughta do it. You should try it some time." He grinned.

George grumbled something in response which Annie could not make out. "You got an early shift?" he asked Mitchell as he pulled up a chair at the table and helped himself to a slice of toast.

Mitchell nodded. "Start at 7. Overtime. They're a bit short-staffed at the moment – that Norovirus-thing."

George shuddered. "Yeah, A and E have been hit badly with it too. And they were short-staffed already, what with Lauren, you know." He shook his head sadly.

"Well, I'd better be going," said Mitchell quickly, grabbing another piece of toast and shoving it in his mouth.

"Oh. Well, see you later, then. I'm on at 9," George called after him as Mitchell threw on his coat and hurried out the door.

Annie watched as George pottered about the kitchen, tidying away the breakfast things, washing up. Yesterday he had heard her, with his super-sensitive werewolf ears. _The first person to have heard her voice in eighteen months._Should she try speaking to him now? _Would a disembodied voice totally freak him out?_

"George," she whispered tentatively, leaning closer to him as he stood over the washing up bowl.

No response.

"_George_," she tried again, a little louder.

He froze, inclined his head toward her, frowned.

Annie felt a thrill seize her. Had he heard her? Had he _actually_ heard her? "George!" she cried excitedly, extending a trembling hand to touch his shoulder.

Her hand slid through him.

He gave a shiver. Then, with a shake of his head, he shrugged and resumed the washing up.

She stared at her hand in dismay.

For a moment, then, she had almost felt solid, almost _real_. She sighed bitterly. _So much for werewolf hearing!_ He couldn't hear her. Perhaps a faint echo, that was all. Not enough to register. Not enough to make her real.

He was preparing his sandwiches now. He had laid out the bread, butter, mayo, mustard and a packet of ham slices on the table and was now delving in the fridge for something else, his back turned.

Her eyes glinted mischievously. She snatched the mustard from the table and sneaked it back onto the shelf in the fridge just as George closed the door.

George returned to the table and set about layering the ham slices onto the bread. Suddenly, he paused, knife poised, a look of confusion on his face.

Annie sniggered behind her hand.

He walked to the fridge again, opened the door - and there it was, on the top shelf. He reached in and retrieved it, a confused frown creasing his brow. He returned to the table, still looking very confused, and then stopped.

"Wh -?" He spun round, glaring fiercely about the kitchen. He halted.

Annie actually did let out a laugh then. She doubled over and clutched her sides as George stepped over to the windowsill and picked up his lettuce. He turned it over in his hands, staring at it perplexedly. With narrowed eyes, he scanned the kitchen thoroughly, but his eyes did not find her.

Her laughter, she suddenly realised, had a hollow ring to it. Abruptly, she stopped and straightened up.

He did not see her. He did not hear her. _Would anyone, ever again?_

In a breath, she moved to her armchair in the pink room upstairs. Hugging her knees tightly to her chest, rocking herself gently with her silent sobs, she remained there until she heard the front door slam once more.

_Alone again_.

(((((( )))))))

She had found the red paint in the shed. An artist had owned the house before she and Owen had, and he'd left a horde of old paint tins behind. The tin was heavy, though, and had been very difficult to move at first. Her hands kept sliding through it. Eventually, she discovered that if she concentrated very hard on forming a picture in her head of herself holding the tin, her hands could grasp it firmly. Actually moving it, however, required a new layer of concentration which really tested her. Gradually, inch by inch, she managed to nudge the tin off the shelf and she watched with satisfaction as it rolled towards the shed door. Now she was faced with the task of dragging it up the garden path to the back door. She placed her hand about the handle and focused. It took a very long time – she did not keep track of exactly how long - but somehow it did become steadily easier, so that by the time she reached the back door, she was able to raise the paint tin up balanced only on her little finger. She marvelled at this and congratulated herself. Was she becoming stronger? Or just simply more determined? Perhaps it was the house itself helping her, so that as she got closer to its perimeters, she became more powerful...

Certainly, as she stepped inside the house again, buoyed up by her achievement, she felt more in control, stronger. This was her home. She was taking it back, and the house was on her side.

Annie waited on the stairs, desperate to see the boys' expressions when they saw what she'd done.

The key turned in the lock. The door opened. She could hardly bear the excitement!

"Oh, shit!" murmured Mitchell, staring at the wall opposite the front door

"_Shit …_" echoed George, his mouth gaping in horror.

Annie let out a triumphant whoop and jumped up with a clap of her hands.

"What was that?" said George.

He'd heard her again! She let out a squeal of delight and scampered up the stairs, laughing. Just for good measure, she slammed her bedroom door with all the force she could muster. Which turned out to be quite a lot. She dropped into her armchair with a satisfied sigh and listened. They were talking at the foot of the stairs. Arguing in hushed tones. Now they were coming up. Slowly. They were coming to find her. Though they wouldn't, of course. She'd have to watch them stumbling around idiotically, staring right through her, probably even walking right through her too. Her amusement had faded already. She gnawed at her fingernails absently.

The door was flung wide. Annie flicked her gaze up to see George standing in the doorway with a cricket bat raised above his head. Mitchell edged behind him carrying …an umbrella? She rolled her eyes and returned to her fingernails.

"Who the _hell_ are _you_?" demanded George loudly.

She glanced up. He was looking directly at her, the cricket bat twitching in his hands. She looked behind her. _No one there._ Her jaw dropped as she turned to look at him again. "What?" she responded, stupidly. "Can you see me?"

"Of course! Who are you?" he replied, his voice rising with indignation.

"You can _see me_?" cried Annie, hardly daring to believe it. She jumped up onto the arm of the chair. "Can you see me do that?" she asked, flapping her arms wildly.

"What are you talking about?" He stared at her, a look of angry confusion on his face.

Were they having a conversation? Annie leapt out of the chair and bounded towards him. "You – you can hear me too?" she gasped, her heart doing a little flip inside her chest. He could see her _and_ hear her voice! She drew her hands to her face. "Oh my God, it's incredible!" she exclaimed, trembling.

She looked at Mitchell. He was staring at her open-mouthed.

"George –" he murmured uneasily.

He could see her too! "Oh, I don't believe this!" she squealed. She wrung her hands excitedly.

"_You_ don't believe this?" George repeated, levelling the cricket bat towards Annie's chest. "Mitchell, call the police."

"George, hang on -" Mitchell urged him.

George ignored him. He glared angrily at Annie. "Did you write that on our wall? That had better come off!"

But Annie was oblivious to George's hostility. The only thing that mattered was that for the first time in eighteen months, someone – _two_ people – had seen and heard her! They were looking right at her! George was talking to her like she was a real, living person. _He actually thought she was a real, living person!_ "Oh this is incredible!" she cried, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"George, it's okay," repeated Mitchell patiently, placing a hand on his arm.

"It is most certainly _not_ okay!" replied George, his voice rising again. "We paid a deposit!"

"George, shut up!" said Mitchell firmly. "She's a ghost."

Annie glared at Mitchell sniffily. He had to go and _spoil_ it. "Your point being?" she demanded of him irritably.

"My point _being_," explained Mitchell calmly, "that no one's gonna be calling the police."

George stared at him, then back at Annie. "She's a _ghost_?" he croaked.

"Yes, George. She's a ghost." A smile curved Mitchell's lips as he regarded her appraisingly. He folded his arms.

"Alright, yes, I'm a ghost! Don't keep going on about it!" retorted Annie, scowling at Mitchell, her hands on her hips.

"We – we have a – _ghost_ - in our house?" George stammered, not removing his horrified gaze from her.

She rounded on him furiously. "_Your_ house? It's _my_ house!"

"Yes," answered Mitchell, ignoring Annie's outburst. He grinned at her. "What's your name?"

Annie's breath caught in her throat. How long had she waited to hear those words? For someone to look into her face and ask her her name? She felt tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. "A -Annie," she answered shakily. She swallowed. A little more confidently, "My name is Annie."

"Well, Annie," said Mitchell, smiling warmly, and opening his arms wide, "I'm Mitchell and this is George."

"I know," admitted Annie, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks. "I've been, um, watching you, and um, listening to you." She ducked her gaze and twisted a finger through her curls.

"Have you now?" said Mitchell, his eyes twinkling playfully. "Well, how about we all go downstairs and have a nice cup of tea together? George here's had a bit of a shock, you see, and I'm gasping."

"Oh, I don't – I don't drink. I mean, I _can't_ drink. Or eat," Annie explained, feeling a little awkward.

"But you'll join us?" He looked at her hopefully.

George inclined his head towards Mitchell quizzically. "Er - Mitchell?"

"This _is_ her house, George," Mitchell answered, turning to face him. "We should get to know each other, don't you think?"

George made a squeaky noise in his throat. He coughed. "Okay," he conceded with a nod, as he lowered the cricket bat. "Okay, Tea. Yes. Tea."

"Right!" said Mitchell, chuckling, and giving him a slap on his shoulder. "Come on, then."

Annie bit her lip to disguise her glee. Two boys, who could see her and hear her, and who wanted to get to know her! She beamed as she looked from one boy's face to the other: Mitchell the vampire, grinning encouragingly at her; George the werewolf, stunned and a little hostile, it was true – BUT - _housemates! _

(((((((( )))))))))

Much later, after both boys had gone to bed, Annie found herself hovering outside Mitchell's door. If they were to be friends, she needed to apologise to him, privately, for rifling through his photos and personal things. There had been a moment earlier in the evening, when all three of them were sitting around the kitchen table, when she had nearly blurted out her apology in front of George. However, just as she opened her mouth she had caught Mitchell's eye, and some warning in his look restrained her impulse and silenced her. She understood that what had occurred between them in his room, what she had witnessed, was too personal for Mitchell, and not something he wished to share with George.

Tentatively, she knocked on the door. She strained her ears, heard him groan as he dragged himself up from his bed, the click of the lamp. The door opened and Mitchell stood there, in his vest and pyjama bottoms, looking at her through sleep-filled eyes.

"Annie," he said, by way of acknowledgement, and stood aside to let her in.

Timidly, she stepped past him into the room.

He closed the door behind her, then crossed to the bed and climbed back in.

"Why did you bother knocking when you could easily have 'rent-a-ghosted' in?" he muttered, drawing the covers tightly up to his chest.

She decided to ignore that. He knew the answer anyway. "I wanted to talk to you. In private," she explained.

He sighed wearily. "Look, if it's about the photos – "

"I'm sorry, Mitchell!" she burst out, imploring his forgiveness with her remorseful expression. "I didn't mean to – to – " She fumbled for the words. How much should she admit to? Should she admit that she had watched him gathering the photos back into the shoebox? That she had watched him cry over them? She bit her lip and shook her head. "It was mean. It was a horrible thing to do," she continued, lowering her eyes. "I promise I won't – I won't go through your personal things again."

"Fine," Mitchell muttered, rubbing his tired eyes. "Thank you. You're forgiven. Now, it's late, I've got an early shift…"

"Was that really your mother in that picture with the baby?" It had left her mouth before she had the wits to stop herself. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks.

He stared at her, a deep frown creasing his brow.

"I'm sorry, Mitchell, I didn't mean to pry, it's just – it's just – I just wondered –" she spread her hands helplessly, aware that she was babbling now to cover her embarrassment.

Mitchell sighed heavily and pushed himself up against the pillows. "Yes," he answered simply. "That was my mother." He met her eyes with a steady and intense gaze, as if to measure her reaction.

Annie swallowed. "And the baby?" she persisted, feeling emboldened by his frankness. "Was that _you_?"

"The baby is dead, Annie," Mitchell answered coolly. "The picture was taken after the baby died."

"Dead?" she repeated, her eyes widening.

"Yes. Babies died a lot in those days. The baby was my brother. He died before I was born."

"And then they took a _photo_…?" She stared at him incredulously.

"It was all she had to remind her of him."

Annie clutched a hand to her chest. She dropped down onto the foot of the bed, by Mitchell's feet. Somehow, hadn't she known all along? She'd been so drawn to that picture, the picture of the dead child cradled in its grieving mother's arms…. She took a steadying breath.

"What was his name?" she asked quietly.

"Who? Oh, the baby. John. He was called John."

"But that's _your_ name, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well, he died, then I was born, and they used the name again." He shrugged, unconcerned. "It was my grandfather's name."

She turned her face to his then, as the tears slid down her cheeks. A dead baby, a grieving mother, a motherless boy who would live forever, never growing old; and a lonely, dead girl, cut off from all those who loved her when she was alive. _What were they going to do?_

"Oh, Annie," Mitchell sighed, reaching to rub her back soothingly. "It was a long time ago. They're all dead now. All gone." He patted her shoulder gently and withdrew his hand. "You feel cold," he said, offering her a lopsided smile.

"I'm _dead_, Mitchell," she snorted.

"You feel very – _solid_ though." He regarded her curiously.

"Do I?"

He nodded appreciatively.

Something else had been bothering her however, and with this observation he had reminded her. "Why do you think you and George couldn't see or hear me when you first moved in?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Maybe because you didn't want to be seen?" he suggested.

"But I _did_!" she insisted. "I _did_. I _shouted_ at George this morning!"

"Did you?" He considered this for a moment. "Did you _really_ though?" He levelled his eyes to gaze searchingly into hers. "Maybe you got so used to being ignored, Annie, that part of you wasn't sure you were ready to be seen and heard yet. Maybe you needed to really _want_ it before you could be seen by us."

She reflected on this. Had she really preferred to hide herself from Mitchell and George when they first moved in? She had watched them, listened to their conversations, snooped among their belongings. It had suited her to stay hidden, hadn't it? Had she only become visible to them when she had really wanted their attention? Or maybe she was getting stronger, as she had felt before, when she had dragged the paint tin from the garden shed? Whatever was going on, her circumstances had changed hugely since this morning, and she was grateful for that, even if it meant sharing her house with two boys.

"George hates me, doesn't he?" she said glumly.

"He doesn't _hate_ you," said Mitchell kindly. "Give him time. He just needs to get to know you, that's all. He takes a while to adjust to change."

"He's a werewolf! He has to change into a rampaging beast once a month!" Annie scoffed.

"Yeah, well, I don't think he's quite adjusted to _that_ change yet, and it's been nearly two years," muttered Mitchell darkly.

There was a silence, in which Annie thought about George: mild-mannered, fastidious, slightly OCDish George and the terrible curse that he endured every month. How did someone like George adjust to that type of change? How did he live with it?

"He's a bit strange, our George, but he's got a good heart. You'll see, once you get to know him," said Mitchell.

Annie sighed wistfully. "That's what people used to say about me, too. 'Oh, Annie, she's got a good heart.'" She smiled sadly to herself as she remembered.

"George will see that too, eventually, and you'll be friends. Soon, I'm sure of it," Mitchell reassured her.

The conversation had come to a natural end. She stood up from the bed. "Right. I'll leave you to sleep now," she said. "And thank you Mitchell, for – for – " She shrugged and smiled. "For finding me." She vanished.

As she curled up into her armchair that night, settling down with one of her Anne Rice novels, she felt peaceful and content for the first time in eighteen long months. Mitchell, George and Annie: a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost, living together in her pink house in Bristol. _Life after death._


End file.
